


Holy Terror Coda

by mindfluff



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Post-Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, drinking as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindfluff/pseuds/mindfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens after Holy Terror ends.<br/>Mostly from Dean's pov, and Dean's head isn't a good place to be at the best of times.<br/>Also, I suck at summaries</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holy Terror Coda

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't beta'd and I don't really like the ending but its been trying to be written for a week and I'm sick of it. If you find any errors (spelling, grammar, continuity), let me know and I'll fix them.

Author: mindfluff  
Fandom: Supernatural  
Rating: mature  
Warnings: suicidal thoughts, drinking to cope  
Summary: What happened after Gadreel left the bunker wearing Sam

 -----------------

 

                Dean sat slumped in one of the hard wooden chairs in the bunker’s library, a mostly empty bottle of Wild Turkey, a crystal tumbler and his father’s Colt 1911 on the table in front of him.  Every few minutes he’d look at the place where Kevin’s body had fallen and take another swallow straight from the bottle.  He’d stopped pouring the cheap whiskey into the tumbler an hour ago.

                He was alone in the bunker in a way that never should have happened.  Kevin was right after all, he, like everybody else, were always screwed when they trusted Dean.  At least that wouldn’t happen again.  Kevin was long past the point of caring about fairness.  Dean hoped he’s gotten an express ride to Heaven and was finally with his mother, and maybe his girlfriend.  It was so much less than the kid deserved.  Dean had given the kid a hunter’s funeral; he earned that at least, and spread the ashes in the woods behind the bunker.  Sam, or whichever fucking angel-dick was wearing him, was MIA and Dean had no idea even how to go about finding him, let alone getting in touch with Sam to kick the son of a bitch out of Sam’s body.  Dean took another swig of whiskey and finally faced the fact that Sam might be dead too.  He wasn’t really sure what the angel meant by ‘There is no more Sam.’ Dean took another long swig from the bottle and spun the gun around on the table.

                Every fucked up choice he’d made since they’d stopped the trials had been to keep Sam safe and alive, and now he was gone.  He’d been so afraid of losing Sam, of being alone, that he’d thrown all caution to the wind and taken up the offer of a wingless dick on nothing more than said dick’s say so.  He should have known better then to take Ezekiel at his word; he should have found a way to _force_ him to tell the truth.  There had to be a spell somewhere that would have compelled the truth out of him. 

                Dean snorted and took another swig of whiskey.  There probably was a spell, but it would have been on the angel tablet that not-Ezekiel had taken with him.  Not that it really mattered, they – _he_ – no longer had a prophet that was able to read it.  Dean swallowed a sob along with the last of the whiskey in the bottle as he idly spun the gun around and around, not fully aware his actions.

                The final straw was Cas.  More than 24 hours since the phone call telling him he’d trusted the wrong angel and not another peep.  Dean had no idea if Cas was ok, or if the grace he’d stolen had fucked him up somehow.  He understood the guy was on the top of every angel’s most wanted list right now, but God _damn_ Dean needed him.  Needed to see at least one person he cared about was still ok.  He didn’t even have a way to get in touch with the guy; the cell number he’d had went right to voicemail.

                Dean pushed himself heavily up out of the chair and lurched over to the sideboard to grab another bottle.  When he fell back into his chair, the empty bottle fell over and Dean shoved it aside to make room for the new one.  He took a swig and started playing with the gun again, watching how the lights from the ceiling reflected of the engravings of the barrel.  He took another hit from the bottle, closed his eyes and started disassembling the gun.  Remove the magazine…check the chamber and remove the bullet…press the plug and twist the bushing…let the plug out, carefully…take the plug off, release the safety….pull the slide back…pull the stop out…take the barrel off.  He’d been doing this for more than twenty years at this point and could do it in any stage of hurt, sleep deprivation or inebriation.  He opened his eyes and drank from the bottle again, then closed his eyes and reassembled the gun. 

                Dean remembered when he was finally strong enough to take it apart without the tools.  He’d still been young enough to be proud of that accomplishment.  His father’s response had been to say it was about time.  When he’d learned to take it apart and put it back together with his eyes closed and no tools, he hadn’t said anything to his father and felt only disappointment that it had taken him so long to learn.

                The gun reassembled, his eyes drifted to the spot where Kevin had died and in a fit of pure anguish, picked up the empty bottle and hurled it.  Glass shards flew everywhere as it smashed into the base of the pillar.  Dean let out a roar as he stood up fast enough to knock the chair backwards and stood, leaning on the table for a minute, breathing heavily before he sank to the floor, sobs racking his body.  He stopped abruptly wiping his calloused hand across his tear-streaked face, when he heard a noise coming from the hall behind him.  Dean sat crumpled on the floor for a minute, listening until another faint noise reached him.  He levered himself up, grabbed both the bottle and the gun, and staggered down the hall.

                Every couple feet he took another swallow from the bottle.  When he got to the doors of the dungeon, he had to put both the gun and the bottle down and even then it took him a couple of tries to slide the shelves apart.  He smacked the lights on as he picked them both up again.  He took a long drink staring at Crowley, still trussed up in chains and immobile on his chair.

                “Having a bad day squirrel?” the demon drawled.  “Where’s your moose?”

                “Fuck you,” Dean answered flatly.

                “Trouble in paradise?” Crowley pressed.

                Dean raised the gun and pointed it unsteadily at Crowley’s head.  “Shhhhut the fuck up.”

                Crowley chuckled softly.  “You must be really pissed to think that can hurt me.”

                “I know it can't.  But the devil’s trap carved into the bullets can make you stay put.”  He slid the safety off. “Just think, this place was empty for nearly 60 years before Sam and I tripped on it.  I wonder how long it'll be before it gets found again.  If it gets found again.”  He cocked the hammer back and took another drink from the bottle.  “And even if you are found some time in the next century…and you con some poor sap into letting you out of your chains…you'll still be stuck here…with bullets in ya."  Dean swallowed some more from the bottle.

                "You are passed pissed," Crowley sneered.  "You are completely arseholed. I don't think you could hit me if you tried."

                Dean stood in silence for a second before responding.  "Maybe.  But I could still probably get m'self, and you'll still be stuck here."

                "Well well, it must be my lucky day, the great Dean Winchester is _finally_ giving up and I get a front row seat."  Crowley made a show of settling into his chair.  "Well go ahead and get on with it.  I can't wait for moose and your little angel to find out."

                Dean choked back a sob and lowered the gun.  "They won't," he whispered.

                "What's that squirrel?  Why would you think the so-called brains of your operation and the hottest angel on the tree wouldn't find out you offed yourself.  Are you really that thick?"  Crowley sneered.

                "Sam's gone," Dean choked.  "Dunno where Cas is, he might be dead."  Dean choked on another sob.  "Kevin _is_ dead."

                Crowley sat in silence for a second, "Bollocks, I had plans for the little prophet.  What did you do to get him killed?"

                "Trusted the wrong angel.  I _had_ to, Sam was dyin'," Dean blurts.  "Cas had his grace stolen  an' the fuckin' angels fell, I _had no choice,"_ Dean screamed.  He slid down the wall and let the bottle fall to the floor.  "No choice.  I tricked Sam into lettin' in the angel so he'd get better.  And the fuckin' bastard _killed Kevin_ and took off wearing Sam!" 

                Dean picked up the bottle and threw it at Crowley who ducked and flinched as it smashed into the wall behind him.  "Now Cas stole some other angel's grace and I dunno what tha's gonna do to 'im, he's not answerin' his cell phone, and I have no idea where he is or what to do 'bout Sammy." 

                Tears were pouring down his face and when scrubbed it them with his hand, he realized he was still holding the gun.  Dean stood up, sniffling and wiped his face with his t-shirt.  "Everything I do turns to shit.  If I don't do anything else, everything'll be ok."

                Crowley rolled his eyes, "Oh for fuck's sake, I keep forgetting just how stupid you are."

                Dean jumped unsteadily to his feet and pointed the gun at Crowley again.  "I'm not stupid enough to forget to shoot you first."

                Crowley rolled his eyes again.  "Put the toy away squirrel.  I'm going to remind you why I'm the King of Hell and not just another crossroad demon."  He watched as Dean slowly lowered the gun and a faint glimmer of hope shone in his eyes.  "Foreign grace won't kill an angel, so you're little tree topper is probably fine.  He's probably avoiding you from some misguided attempt to protect you.  He's as much of a martyr as you wankers are."

                "Well that's just fucking peachy, but I _still can't contact him_!" Dean screamed raising the gun again.

                "So fucking _pray to him_ you idiot!  He's a bloody angel again, you can pray to him!" Crowley yelled back, standing up.

                Dean stood in shock for a full minute before bolting from the room.

**************

                Dean sat on the upended bucket he'd placed in the woods behind the bunker, still clutching his gun and a new bottle.  He took a swig for courage and closed his eyes.  "Cas, you got your ears on buddy?  I need you real bad.  Some shit's gone down here at the bunker that I think you need to know.  I…I ain't doing too well either, and I …. I really need to see a friendly face right now.  Uh, amen."

                Dean sat for a minute listening for the tell-tale sound of wings before looking around to confirm Cas hadn’t showed.  He took a few big swallows from the bottle and headed back to the bunker door, feet dragging, shoulders slumped and misery written all over his face.

                Dean dropped back into his chair in the library and stared at the pillar where Kevin had died.  He thought about what he’d said to Crowley; he’d never actually thought about suicide but even the pits of Hell were starting to sound better than the miserable existence he was trapped in now.  Dean took another drink of whiskey and spun the gun around on the table.  Suicide was the coward’s way out, and he’d never considered himself a coward before.  He was weak, he knew this.  It had been proven to him in Hell when he had been broken on Alistair’s table.  His father never gave in to Alistair’s torture and he’d been on the rack for a hundred years; Dean had barely lasted 30. 

                Dean dropped his head to the table, tears leaking down his face.  He wasn’t smart enough, he wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t _good_ enough for the people who trusted him.  Every single one of them had died and it was his fault.  Cas might share some of the blame for his transgressions, but he’d made a lot of bad choices simply because he was trying to prove to Dean he was doing the right thing.  Dean started mentally reciting the litany of those who’d died on his watch … Kevin … Bobby … Ellen … Jo … Ash … Adam … Pam … Henricksen … Nancy…  Dean finally dropped off to sleep, the names of the dead still marching through his thoughts, hand wrapped around the grip of the gun.

                It was nearly an hour later when Cas let himself  into the bunker and found Dean still passed out on the table.  His shoes crunched on the broken glass as he walked through the library to where Dean sat.  He looked quietly at the death grip Dean had on the gun and the nearly empty bottle and gently reached out to touch Dean on the shoulder.

                “Dean.”

                Dean jumped up and scrambled for his gun before he realized who had woken him.  “Cas?” Dean said, his voice breaking.

                “Hello Dean.”

                Dean wrapped the angel in a desperate hug, babbling everything that had gone wrong, tears running down his face.  Cas gently took the gun from Dean and laid it on the table.  “Dean, why do you have your gun out?”

                “I dunno Cas,” he hiccupped.  “Everyone’s gone, I dunno.  Crowley…Crowley told me to pray to you instead.  I forgot Cas, ‘m sorry, I f’got.”

                Cas’s face went blank as he realized what Dean wasn’t saying.  “It is ok Dean, I was human for a long time and couldn’t hear you.  I apologize for taking so long to arrive, the bunker is warded against me flying here directly.  The closest I could get was a few miles away.”  He looped Dean’s arm around his shoulders, and held the hunter tightly around the waist.  “I think it would be beneficial for you to sleep now Dean.  We can figure out what to do in the morning.”

                “I fucked up Cas, I really fucked up this time.”  Dean mumbled as they shuffled down the hall to Dean’s room.  “They’re all dead cause of me.”

                “The situation is not beyond repair.   Sleep Dean, and we will figure out a solution tomorrow.”  Cas laid Dean down on the bed and gently touched two fingers to his forehead.  The least he could do was give his friend some much needed dreamless sleep.

                He removed the hunter’s boots and covered him with a blanket from the end of the bed.  He quietly shut the door behind him and went in search of Crowley.  He found the demon in the still-open dungeon, sitting on his chair watching the door intently.

                “I do not understand your motivations, but I must thank you for reminding Dean to pray to me,” Cas said.  He tilted his head in confusion, “I…I believe he meant to kill himself, but for some reason, you prevented it and suggested he call me.  Why?”

                “Would you believe I’ve had a change of demon heart?” Crowley drawled.

                “Not likely,” Cas replied.

                Crowley snorted.  “Of course not.  How about I didn’t want to be trapped in here alone until I grow mold, or perhaps I like having one of you three stooges in my debt, or maybe I just don’t want that denim wrapped nightmare in HELL!”

                “Those are much more likely.”  Cas stared at Crowley carefully for a full minute, neither one of them talking.  “You have changed, the demon part of you is not as strong as it was.”

                “Sam isn’t the only one who suffered from those bloody trials,” Crowley spat.  “But these two morons won’t allow me any kind of freedom at all.”

                Cas nodded.  “I will speak with Dean about it, but do not expect my words to make a difference.” Cas turned to walk away but stopped at the door, “Thank you Crowley.  I do not think the angels can be returned to Heaven without the help of the Winchesters, and … I would miss my friend.”

 

 

 


End file.
